


Ghostscape 2: The Cabin by the Caves

by LunaMoth116



Series: Ghostscape Stories [2]
Category: Psionic Games
Genre: Cabins, Creepypasta, Disturbing Themes, Forests, Gen, Horror, Mystery, POV First Person, Paranormal Investigators, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our paranormal investigator explores a cabin in the woods, meets a mysterious old man, and learns one’s sanity is often the price for truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghostscape 2: The Cabin by the Caves

**Author's Note:**

> _At long last, the first sequel! Bigger, longer, and (hopefully) creepier, as a sequel should be. I’d floated around ideas for this story since posting the first one, but put it off until I finished some other fics that were eating my brain. And yes, there will be stories for_ Ghostscape 3D _and_ 4 _(whenever it’s released - no pressure, Psi ^_~) eventually. :) You don’t need to have read the previous story to follow this one, but you can play the game that inspired this fic[here](http://jayisgames.com/games/ghostscape-2-the-cabin/), and check out Psionic’s other games [here](http://www.psionicgames.com/games/). He - and I - would love to see more stories for his games; maybe one of you will be inspired. :)_  
>  _Many thanks to Psionic, as always, for being both incredibly creative and supportive of his fans; to serendipity2009, whose walkthrough on JayIsGames was enormously helpful with establishing a through line (and keeping track of inventory ^_~); and to all my readers, especially Stef, OtakuElf, Mirko, and last but far from least, beachbear, whose kind words helped spur me on to finally write this. This one’s for you. :)_

“ _Only on the edge of the grave can man conclude anything.”_

_~ Henry Adams_

There’s a little joke, a one-liner, that’s often told among members of my profession. It goes like this: “Whatever _possessed_ us to take this job?”

Some days I find it funny and others I don’t. Today is one of the latter days.

Yes, I’m back from another investigation. Not a creaky old house this time, in a manner of speaking. No, not _just_ a creaky old house. And yes, once again I feel strangely compelled to write down what I’ve seen. It helped a little the last time; who knows if it might work again?

There was an old cabin, deep in an even older forest, which was rumored to be haunted. Of course, that didn’t stop most people from making trips to camp out in and around the area. I’m not much of a camper myself - for all the things I’ve seen and experienced in my years of paranormal investigation, there is little that’s as frightening to me as not having access to modern plumbing. But I digress.

What _did_ give people pause (finally) were the missing person reports that had started trickling out. This area of the woods was the last place they were known to have gone, as far as they could be traced. After that, they had simply vanished, seemingly whisked away on the breeze. The locals I talked to all knew _someone_ owned a cabin up there, but it was so long ago that none of them could say for sure who had built it or who might be living there now. The police who’d looked into the disappearances hadn’t determined much more than that, either; naturally, they’d been very interested in speaking to anyone who might have been in the cabin, but no one had turned up or come forward.

There was, of course, something all the locals talked about that the police didn’t; each one of them, young and old, told me something about a being called “Ankou” - he was a “Graveyard Watcher”, they said. They went on to describe rumors of bizarre rituals that had taken place there in years past, the purpose of which had supposedly been paying tribute to Ankou.

And that was where I came in.

So that was how I found myself standing in a clearing in the middle of the acres of forest around me, with my camera around my neck, my bag at my side and no signal on my phone. I could barely see the overcast sky, thick with gray clouds, through the canopy of trees above my head, their branches and leaves bending gently in the cool breeze whistling through. Aside from the wind, the woods were otherwise quiet.

The warm welcome started within moments of my arrival, as I glimpsed the signs nailed to trees around the area: “ **NO TRESPASSING** ”, “ **KEEP OUT** ” and finally the simple but straightforward “ **CABIN** ” all told me I was in the right place. After double-checking my bag one last time, I began to walk past them.

Before long, I found my footing on the trail ahead, the trail I was told would take me straight to the cabin. I had been warned to be cautious (as if I weren’t already) and look out for rock slides, mine shafts, cliffs and chasms. And people had actually tried to camp here.

I shook my head as I emerged from another patch of trees to find a fence and locked gate before one such chasm. Immediately, a common sign of supernatural activity presented itself; a lone white orb bobbed past me, giving me plenty of time to switch on my camera and snap a picture. It flashed before disappearing; another lost soul freed, courtesy of yours truly.

Still holding my camera, I quickly surveyed the area. Across the chasm was a strange, twisted sculpture carved from a dead tree; the rotting wood had been carved into a grotesque, demonic face. Just looking at it gave me even more shivers than the rising wind; I photographed it before I could lose my nerve. Was that someone else’s idea of another “ **KEEP OUT** ” sign like the ones that decorated the fence? The locked gate certainly wouldn’t deter most visitors, as I well knew.

The bridge across the chasm looked sturdy enough, its rope and planks in surprisingly good shape. I wasn’t sure if that was due more to good maintenance or fortuitous weather conditions keeping the wood from decaying. The gate and barbed wire fence appeared to be cared for as well. All fairly standard for someone who might be living up here and didn’t much care for company.

What _wasn’t_ normal were the three gravestones buried in the ground just next to the fence - all close together, all in different shapes and conditions. One was a simple cross, the others typical upright stone slabs. Only one of them bore any markings - a date, 1907. I photographed all three of them, finding it odd that not one of them had any other inscriptions. Other questions flooded my mind: Why were they all so close together? Why were they buried _here_ , of all places? And most of all, who had cared about them enough to mark their final resting place but not enough to give them so much as a name or an epitaph?

A shovel lay by the one to my right. I picked it up, thinking it might come in handy, and noticed the footprints next to the fence. Strange… Thinking of recent weather reports, I remembered that it had rained a few days ago. So these footprints meant someone had likely been here recently - just before I’d arrived, in fact.

Coincidence? Somehow I doubted it.

I ignored the signs telling me to turn back as I approached the gate. (And I don’t just mean the handwritten ones.) To my further surprise, the lock on the gate appeared fairly new; it was either weather-proof or had been placed here recently. It required a four-number combination; thinking of the crowbar and bolt cutters I’d stashed in my bag for just such an occasion, I decided to try the only possible sequence I’d seen here: 1907. Sure enough, the lock clicked open and the gate swung forward as if inviting me to cross the bridge.

There was no turning back now. Steadying myself, I carefully crossed the solid planks, heading deeper into the woods.

After a few minutes of walking, I emerged from the brush to see a small woodshed in front of me, piled high with logs and farming implements. The rickety fence that surrounded it, save for a path to my left, was clumsily circled by more barbed wire in a halfhearted attempt to keep people away. A couple more orbs passed by me, confirming what my intuition had already told me; a few clicks of my camera sent them onward. As I moved toward the shed for a closer look, I spotted something from the corner of my eye.

Even in the gray light, I would have sworn I saw a shadow creeping over my shoulder.

Camera in hand, I whipped around just in time to snap the image of an impossibly tall, slender man just before he - it - faded into the thick of the woods. Looking at the picture on my camera, I saw shreds hanging from his form as if he were dressed in rags, wearing a wide hat and carrying a…scythe?

Was this the Ankou the locals had whispered about? Was this the “Graveyard Watcher” who was the stuff of local legend, this strange blend (in appearance, at least) of Old Scratch and the Grim Reaper? He fit their descriptions perfectly. I mulled the thought over as I began to look around again. Somehow I could understand how the thought of there being someone who _watched_ being much creepier than someone who actually _did_ something.

Then again, I don’t do much more than watch. Watch, record, and analyze. Maybe I had something in common with this spirit after all.

Quickly, I shook off that notion and turned back to exploring. There was another headstone next to the woodshed, also nameless. Beside it grew two red poppies, their vivid shade of crimson standing out against the stark landscape like drops of blood in snow. I decided to take them with me, tying them together with a rubber band I found in my pack. An old, dirty oil lamp dangled from the shed roof as if keeping a long-dead vigil. After looking around a little more, I took the path to my left away from the woodshed.

I swear I sensed it before I saw it.

The cabin - or the Cabin, as I sometimes think of it now - seemed to materialize from nowhere in the thicket. At first glance it looked even older and more run-down than I was, its shabby roof held up shakily by lopsided tree trunks that had been carved into support poles. It was small, just large enough to hold no more than two rooms, maybe three. Someone had obviously put a lot of care into building it, but not much in maintaining it. The windows were boarded, preventing a glance inside; the door was barely hanging on its hinges. No grass grew in the surrounding yard; rocks and weeds littered the ground instead. In contrast to the woods surrounding them, the trees here seemed to barely move in the wind, their stillness almost unnatural. I told myself it was because they were so thick the wind couldn’t get through. Yes, that was why. Never mind the way they seemed to bend and loom just around the cabin, but never seemed to reach within even a foot of the place.

I carefully made my way to the front steps, glancing around to avoid tripping on the rocks. A few more orbs came into view as if drawn to me; my camera sent them on their way. Another old oil lamp sat by the steps, where it had no doubt once provided a beacon for someone trying to find their way home. A third red poppy caught my eye a few inches away. As I went to pick it, I looked over to see what it was growing by - and nearly fell over the rocks.

The poppy bloomed next to an open grave. At the head was, of course, an old stone. Unlike the others, this gravestone had an inscription. But not just any epitaph.

No, the name it bore…was my own.

I stumbled back a bit, slammed my back into the porch, barely even noticing as I gulped air into my lungs. I fumbled for my camera, snapped a photo, then dared to glance at the picture as it blinked onto the viewscreen, forcing myself to confirm what I didn’t want to believe.

I was standing next to my own grave.

No. I was being paranoid. Yes. It was only my first name - _a_ first name - and that name is one that’s common enough. Just because it appeared freshly dug, ready for a coffin to be lowered - or a body to be dropped - inside, just because it looked much newer than all the other gravestones I’d seen… No, I was jumping to conclusions. I had to be.

I couldn’t let myself believe otherwise.

Picking the poppy - why not? It might bring luck - and adding it to the bunch, I surveyed the area. In back of the cabin I could just make out some cliffs and caves, their gray stone nearly blending into the smoky sky. To my right I could see a tool shed a short walk away. West of the cabin were what looked like a group of tents - when had they been pitched? Could more people have come up here since the missing persons reports had circulated? Or were they…older than that?

I thought of the other graves, and how weathered they looked, and a chill ran down my spine that I told myself was the wind.

Where to first? Well, I’d come here to investigate the cabin. What better place to start?

I didn’t bother to knock. Why would I? Even so, as I reached for the knob, the door seemed to swing open of its own accord. Just the wind again. Yes. I took a deep breath and went inside.

I’d come here ready to expect anything. Yet nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting for me inside that cabin.

An old man was sitting quietly at a crumbling table in the single main room, not looking surprised at all to see me. He made no move when I approached, did not even seem to blink. A crown of white hair fringed his balding head; his features seemed to sink into the deep wrinkles lining his face like cracks in dried earth. Dark eyes peered at me from beneath white eyebrows with a gaze that seemed stern, but without malice. I could not even begin to guess at his age.

Then he spoke.

“Hello there.”

His voice made me think of creaking boards and shifting houses, of restless spirits and whispering winds. I’ve never heard a human voice quite like it.

And then he greeted me by name.

I felt the hairs prickle at the back of my neck. At least, I hoped they were standing of their own accord. Trying to sound calmer than I felt, I said, “Hello. It seems you have the advantage.”

He still did not move, save for his dry, cracked lips voicing his next words. “You are looking well today.”

I supposed I was; I had actually managed to sleep the night before, though it hadn’t done much for the ever-present dark circles under my eyes, and certainly nothing for the flecks of premature gray dappling my hair.

He did not wait for me to reply. “I have been expecting you.”

It was a good thing he didn’t seem to want an answer, as I couldn’t make one just then. He went on, saying, “I would like you to do some tasks for me. I’m just an old man and need lots of help these days. Here, I took the trouble of making you a list.”

He glanced at the table in front of him, his eyes landing on a piece of yellowing paper. In a scratchy, spidery handwriting that took careful reading to understand, he had listed several things he wanted me to collect and do. These included lighting his stove, gathering more of the poppies I had been picking, and collecting the oil lamps I’d seen, in addition to diaries, a scythe, a hat, an obsidian blade, a bottle of red wine, and…skulls?

I bit back the reply that leapt to mind: _What else can I do for you while I’m at it? Sweep? Dust? Mop? Wash your windows? Weed your yard? Dig another grave? Carve a headstone? And what’s my prize for this extremely creepy and strange scavenger hunt (emphasis on_ scavenger _, by the looks of you)?_ I didn’t want to give him any ideas. Instead, I nodded and took the piece of paper in silence.

Seemingly satisfied, he continued, “Feel free to investigate whatever you like on my land; you can even use that there metal detector if you find a spot worth investigating.” I followed his gaze and saw a metal detector in the corner that, unlike everything else in here, appeared to be in fairly good condition. “Do all these things for me and come and see me again. I’ll let you take a photograph of me. How does that sound?”

A hundred questions stampeded to the front of my mind in response, chief among them _Who are you and did you build this place and how long have you lived here and do you know anything about the missing people and_ why _in the name of all that is holy or pretends to be do you have a gravestone with_ my name on it _in your front yard?_

I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

All I said was, “Okay.”

The old man nodded then, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t get more out of him until I did as he’d asked.

I stepped away from the table and looked around as I grabbed the metal detector. This single room was bare - without wallpaper or carpet - save for an old wood stove, the table and one chair, not counting the one the man was sitting in. The smell of decaying wood - thankfully, that was the only decay I could detect - and damp was suffocating, no thanks to the sealed windows. The only other furnishings were a couple old lamps and a large skull with antlers - likely a moose - hanging on the back wall. A set of steps led up to the attic, while a trapdoor set into the floor presumably led to the cellar.

It didn’t seem at all like a weekend getaway, or a place one might move to as respite from the chaos and confusion of life in more settled areas. No, at the moment it seemed to only have one purpose - to shelter this old man.

Given the age of both the cabin and its current occupant, I wondered which had come first.

Lighting the fire would be simple enough. I went back to the woodshed and found a pile of dried wood which would do nicely. As I went to pick it up, I noticed something I had missed earlier. Some of the ground in front of the shed appeared to have been recently turned-over; I reached for my shovel, but a thought occurred to me and I instead switched on the metal detector. It was in good working order, and a few careful sweeps soon revealed something buried just below the surface; I retrieved it with just one dig.

In my shovel was a small round ball that looked to be made of dark glass. Picking it up, I examined it more closely and realized it was made of obsidian, a volcanic glass formed in the edges of lava flows. Sometimes, I knew, it could have a small metallic content; that must have been what the detector had picked up. The object was perfectly spherical and polished to a near-mirror finish. What was something like this doing out here? This wasn’t the kind of thing someone would accidentally drop, especially since it seemed to have been buried. It didn’t appear to be part of a larger artifact. Well, just another mystery to work on later. I put the stone in an evidence bag and put it away before smoothing out the dirt and gathering the wood, along with the oil lamp.

Returning to the cabin, I lit the stove with the wood and my trusty lighter, then placed the oil lamps I had already found by the table; the fire did little to warm or light the room. The old man did not nod or acknowledge me in any way. Careful to keep him in the corner of my eye, I mounted the steps to the attic.

This room was just as sparsely furnished as the main one, with only a bed and a large wardrobe for decoration…and a series of marks scratched in the left wall, strangely resembling tally marks like those you might find in a prison cell. Beside another old lamp was a little diary. Curious, I picked it up and thumbed quickly through the brittle pages. The four entries spanned just under a week in July 2007. I wanted to read more, but decided to wait till I’d collected all four the old man wanted - _and_ I was outside. I didn’t want to linger up here for long. Deciding against opening the wardrobe (considering my last experience with a large, closed closet), I headed back downstairs.

The trapdoor had a combination lock just like the one on the gate. I nearly asked the old man, but thought better of it and remembered the scratch - tally - marks upstairs. I entered the numbers - 5375 - and the lock clicked open.

The cellar was surprisingly small considering the rest of the cabin; perhaps the builder just hadn’t wanted to dig further. The air was thick and moist, worse than upstairs, heavy with dust and stinking of mildew. A dim light bulb just barely illuminated a stack of chairs balancing on top of each other every which way; I had no idea what was supporting them. There was an orb that I photographed, another little black diary, a couple oil lamps, another obsidian sphere, and a bottle filled with what I hoped was red wine. I had company as well, in the form of an old doll sitting in the corner that was hairless, blinded, and clad only in a thin white pinafore, cobwebs clinging to each of her skinny arms and legs as if trapping her in place. I wondered if this little toy had ever been loved.

She - it - had a pull string. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound… I reached out and tugged it.

She spoke as the string retracted.

“ _I have no one to play with_.”

Her voice sounded almost like a younger, more feminine version of the old man’s. What else did she have to say? Clues for the investigation. That’s why I kept pulling her string. Yes.

“ _Who are you?_ ”

An excellent question.

“ _You’re not my mommy_.”

Mercifully.

“ _Have you seen my daddy?_ ”

Perhaps I had.

“ _Will you be my friend?_ ”

Tempting… What had she done to deserve being left down here like this? I could fit her in my bag, easily enough…

Then her voice turned deeper and darker:

“ _I will kill you_. _My daddy will kill you. He’s coming for you…_ ”

I couldn’t get out of that cellar fast enough.

Depositing what I had collected so far at the table, I hurried outside, desperate for fresh air. As I turned around, I just glimpsed the shadow of a man with a scythe standing by the woods in back.

Ankou.

Numbly, I took his picture before wandering off towards the tool shed east of the cabin. A strange smell that I had only slightly noticed before was more prominent here, which would have explained the numerous flies swarming in and around the area. Beside the shed were some old barrels, lots of farming tools on display, and a toilet I had absolutely no interest in going near. What _was_ interesting were the poppies waiting to be picked, the sphere that turned up with a sweep of the metal detector, the wide-brimmed hat hanging from the shed, and the large scythe leaning against the perimeter that was taller than I was, its blade spotless and gleaming.

As I took hold of it -

A vision flashed through my mind.

Fingernails screeched on fogged glass. Dripping in the moisture were these words: _YOU’RE NEXT._

I almost let the scythe fall from my grasp; fortunately, I did not, or I would have brought a swift end to my expedition. Taking a deep breath - trying hard not to inhale the odd smells of the area - I held on to the scythe and looked in back of the shed.

There was a shallow cave back there, nearly invisible in the weak light. The stench almost made me choke, even as I desperately waved away the mass of bats that rushed out of the cave as I approached, the scythe coming in handy to keep them back. Quickly, I checked and saw a rotten old crate in the cave. A pry with my crowbar revealed a pile of documents - passports, personal documents, identification papers, things like that. I couldn’t even begin to guess how many individual lives were named - collected - here. I bagged the packet and got out of there.

Scythe and hat in hand, I left them at the cabin before I went to check out the campsite in the west. The woods were thicker around here, the orbs that passed by me shining like beacons in the low light. Another shadow of Ankou was nearly invisible, fading in and out just behind the tents. There were seven of them altogether, each one by campfires that had never been lit. And yes, I looked inside all of them.

The smell…I can only describe it as one thing. Death. Anyone who’s smelled it, even once, will know what I mean. Anyone who hasn’t should be glad they haven’t. The inside of the tents didn’t look much better, splattered with a dried red substance that had its own faint, metallic odor. Naturally, that was where I found the first skull.

I touched it - and another vision exploded before me. Skulls…so many skulls…a menacing, toothy grin…hollow sockets where eyes had once been…lightning crackling around an obsidian sphere…

Startled, I dropped the skull, didn’t even hear it hit the soft ground. _What was going on?_ Was someone trying to tell me something?

_No_ , I told myself. _Don’t think about it. Just make a note for later. You need hard evidence, not empirical anecdotes._

_And of course the old man is making you give him all the hard evidence - did you think about that?_

Snapping myself out of it - though I don’t like to think of myself “snapping” in any way - I gulped in a breath. The smell was still awful, but the shock to my senses cleared my head. No, I didn’t like having to give up all the evidence, but my gut told me I had no choice. Ever since I first became aware of forces that exist beyond our understanding - since I first took up my career - I have _always_ trusted my intuition. I only wish I could have learned to do so sooner; it might have saved me a lot of trouble, in more ways than one.

I exhaled, almost tasting the scent in its pungency. If I was going to get out of here before dark - and I had no intention of doing otherwise - I had to hurry.

Grabbing the skull, I left the tent and continued my search, discovering more skulls in the other tents. I know very little of skeletons beyond a few anthropology courses I took in college, but I didn’t need a degree to tell me that these skulls had been here a long time. How long? Who had they belonged to? And more importantly, why did the old man want me to collect them?

I held up the skulls one by one as I wondered, taking care to put them away as I thought back to my classes (and I don’t mean Shakespeare). One of them could be my age, my sex…underneath all my skin and bones, I might look just like this.

Once, detached in academia, that thought had fascinated me. Now…the thought seemed a bit too real, the possibility too strong for my liking. The difference between knowing about death and _knowing_ it, seeing it firsthand.

I shook my head. It’s an investigator’s job to ask questions. But when your life may be on the line…there can be such a thing as too many questions.

What is the price we have to pay for knowledge, for truth? And more importantly - was I willing to pay it? Would I do so even if I didn’t think I could die alone up here? If I became just like one of these skulls? If there was a chance the rest of the world could somehow hear me from beyond the grave?

And now I was _definitely_ asking too many questions.

With the skulls placed in individual bags by a campfire, I continued inspecting the site. My search turned up a few more oil lamps, two more diaries, a poppy, and another obsidian sphere. Not wanting to stay here longer than I had to, I headed up the northern trail behind the tents that had been worn through the woods.

After a few minutes, I stepped out of the trees to find myself looking down into the valley I’d been exploring the past few days. The view, I must admit, was breathtaking, with trees and houses dotting the green landscape, and the pictures I took weren’t strictly for evidentiary purposes. Even the orbs seemed to linger a little here, though perhaps that wasn’t because of the view. There wasn’t much else, apart from some old and rusty farming equipment and a weathered wooden bench overlooking the roughly 200-foot drop. I thought of the diaries I’d found; I’d collected all four the old man had requested. Here was as good a place to read them as any. I sat down and pulled the little black books from my bag.

Each of them had only four entries, covering a range of days in a different year. The first one I read was from April 2009, its writing a neat block printing. I had to stifle a laugh at this line in the first entry: “I have found a great little campsite…and the old man who runs it seems really nice.” The author described being kept awake by noises, being curious about the graves, and not seeming at all fazed at the prospect of the place being haunted. The camper had upset the old man by asking about the graves, but had been allowed to stay just one more night. The last entry detailed a sighting of Ankou - though of course the camper hadn’t known it was him - and ended with this: “I’m out of here as soon as possible.”

Yes. Well. The next diary was older, dating from the last week of October 1999. The handwriting was loopier but still legible, evidently that of a man who’d come here with his wife and daughters for a short getaway. He seemed cheerily oblivious to everything that he’d seen - “I have noticed a lot of graves up here and it’s kinda spooky” - but had interestingly observed that there seemed to be a lot of pain in the old man’s eyes. The last line, from an entry made on Halloween, was the following: “Just one more day and we’re going home.”

Oh, how many had said that before him, and how many would again… I sighed and pulled out the third journal. This one was dated mid-July 2007, the handwriting tighter and sharper than the others’. Another camper who was meeting some friends had a bit of a short fuse: “The old git at the cabin was a right miserable bugger and charged me a lot for a short stay. I’ll probably piss off without paying.” Strangely, though his friends never showed up, he found bits and pieces of their bikes in the woods. His last entry told of how he’d been scared by Ankou in the middle of the night and was “getting the hell out of here. This place is freaky!!”

Oh, if my instincts were right, he’d left all right. And though he’d planned to skip, he’d ended up paying. He just hadn’t done either in the way he’d expected.

I shook my head and took out the final diary. This was the oldest of the bunch, from May 1985. The writer, in a tilting, informal script, talked about how he and his girlfriend Jenny had hiked up here and how he was looking for the right time and place to propose - possibly here at Lookout Point? The morning after that entry, Jenny went for a walk and was never seen again. The handwriting became more frantic as the author started to panic when no trace of her showed apart from some litter she’d dropped. His last sighting of her had been some footprints by the caves. Possibly against his better judgment, he was going in there to look for her. His last words said it all: “I must find Jenny.”

As I put the diary away, I saw a glint from the corner of my eye. My gaze dropped to my feet, and as I looked to my left, I spotted the source. A beautiful diamond ring winked in the occasional sunbeams that poked through the clouds. It must have been there all along - I just hadn’t noticed it. It couldn’t have spontaneously appeared…right?

Shrugging, I picked up the ring. At least I’d have one more piece of evidence the old man hadn’t asked for. The ring was simple but elegant, a cushion-cut stone in a white gold setting. The diamond had faded somewhat and the band was scratched, but this ring had only been worn by age, not use. I reached for a bag to put it away, and wondered if Jenny would have accepted.

I rose and took one last look around Lookout Point. My metal detector picked up something a few feet away, and I soon found one last black sphere.

Something occurred to me then. The old man had pointed out the metal detector. He must have _wanted_ me to find these spheres, even though he hadn’t included them on the list. Why? At this point I’d long since given up wondering. Probably around the time I’d found the doll in the cellar.

There was only one more area to be explored - the caves I’d seen behind the cabins earlier. The caves where Jenny had possibly taken her last steps. I wandered back through the campsite and returned to the cabin, taking the path leading there.

The cliffs were smooth and gray, too slick to climb; another shadow of Ankou faded in and out at their peak, at just the right place to see everything. To watch, if you would. The orb that floated by seemed strangely drawn to him, before seeming to resist as it dipped back down and continued on its way. I helped it along with my camera.

There were five caves; one was blocked off by a number of firmly nailed wooden boards, and I had absolutely no desire to pull any of them down to see what was inside. Three of the others turned up more skulls, more crates with packets of papers just like the one I’d found by the tool shed, and the last few items the old man sought. I had almost everything he’d asked for now, and more - except for the obsidian blade.

I went to the last cave, the biggest one and the center of the five. To my surprise, it was blocked shut by a solid door fitting the opening perfectly, with four simple shapes carved into the stone. A pile of dirt lay at the entrance; shoveling it away revealed a five-pointed star in a circle. Six small depressions were dug clearly into the points and center of the star.

I pulled out the obsidian spheres I’d collected. But I didn’t have six… Looking up at the shapes again, I had an idea. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to form the star, but these shapes instead?

I shrugged. Well, if whoever had made this door had wanted to pose a challenge, they’d set a reasonable one by requiring a code of sorts, and then scattering the spheres. I took three of them and formed the first shape, an isosceles triangle. A grinding sound caught my attention, and I looked up to see the door had slid open just a bit, just enough to cover that triangle.

I gathered the spheres and added another to arrange them into the next shape, a rhombus. The door opened a little more. The third shape was another triangle, scalene this time. With trembling hands, I pulled out the last two balls and placed them all in the final shape, a pentagon. The door finally opened all the way.

The cave was barely lit by what little of the sun could reach in, but it was just enough for me to see. I didn’t have to walk far before I saw it.

A coffin filled with earth was at the back of the cave, a scythe jammed into the weed-covered ground at each end and leaning against the wall, their blades pointed toward the tomb as if trying to keep… _something_ from getting out. And another clue gave me a good idea as to what that something was: **ANKOU** was engraved in jagged letters on the back wall behind the coffin.

Standing straight up in the coffin, at the point where I’d roughly expect a person’s heart to be, was a knife. Just enough of the blade was visible that I could see it was obsidian. I remembered what the locals had said. Had some kind of burial rite taken place here?

Well, what the old man wanted… Steeling my nerves, I stepped forward and pulled out the blade. It came easily out of the hard-packed dirt -

\- and another vision flooded my head. Graves…graves as far as the eye could see…crosses and coffins…no names, no dates, nothing… _so many graves_ …graves enough to cover the earth…

I woke from the vision with a gasp, the blade still in my hand. What - what was going on? What had I seen? A glimpse of history? A warning? A prophecy? All three?

“What the _hell…_?” I muttered, then immediately shut my mouth.

Perhaps _hell_ was inching just a bit too close to the truth.

As was I the longer I stayed here.

Quickly, I left the cave and checked over everything I had collected, thought back to what I had left in the cabin. I had found everything the old man asked for, and even some extra evidence for my investigation. At long last, it was time to go.

I hurried back to the cabin and placed the rest of the required items by the table, doing my best to put them in some sort of order, for reasons I couldn’t even explain. The last thing I did was lay the blade on the table in front of the old man. When I was done, I looked up at him, and wondered if he had moved at all as long as I’d been here. He was barely moving even now, his lips nearly still as they formed words.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice drier, more hollow than before. “You don’t know how close you came to death on this day.”

Well, the coffins covering the earth had given me some idea. He went on, “Had you not completed my tasks, you would have surely perished.” I opened my mouth to reply, but he cut me off. “Don’t ask how or why, just be certain that I speak the truth.”

I was. I believed him. As much as I didn’t want to.

His voice took on a strange, rough edge as he nearly shouted, “Now take your photo and get the hell out!” As soon as his temper flared, it died out, and he was calm again. “But know this. We will see each other again, very soon…”

I hardly heard him say my name as I raised my camera, my shaking hands barely keeping it steady. Then I walked out.

The picture loaded on my camera as I descended the front steps. And what it showed - and what it didn’t - froze me in my tracks.

The table and chair were there, sharp and clear. But there was no sign of the old man.

I didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to look back and see whether or not he was still there, didn’t want to see what he might be doing with all the things he’d made me fetch. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

I began to run, my heart pounding in my ears, blood thrumming through my veins, forcing myself to keep looking ahead…

So I didn’t see the rock in front of me. Didn’t see it until I was stumbling over it, tripping, falling with the speed of a soul called to the depths…

And I almost plunged into the grave that bore my name.

Luckily, I managed to catch myself just in time, landing on the ground just past the hole. Leaping up and not looking back, I fled into the woods, back to the chasm and across the bridge, not stopping until I saw those first signs telling me of that damned cabin’s existence, warning me to stay away. I almost wished I had heeded their words.

When I made it back to the town, I stashed all my evidence and made further inquiries the next day. Upon further investigation, the police eventually told me they found no trace of the old man. He had died over thirty years ago and there was no record of anyone living up there since. To my amazement, they said this not with a sneer, but with sympathy, perhaps even a little trepidation. After they heard my story, I think they understood. As I’m hoping, perhaps, others will.

My own research on “Ankou”, the “Graveyard Watcher”, revealed that the name originates from a European myth similar to the Grim Reaper. The story is that a person who is pure of heart is sacrificed by an obsidian blade in a bizarre and particularly gruesome ritual on All Hallows’ Eve. The person’s spirit is somehow trapped between this world and the next and is set the task of watching over important and ancient graves.

That second diary, belonging to the family man… while I don’t like to think about any of it, that’s the part that will always haunt me, as it were. Keeping an eye on the dead, whether buried or otherwise, is a terrible and arduous undertaking, such as it is. I know that better than most. It’s not a duty I would wish on anyone. And it’s never a fate anyone should be made to accept, though I suppose one who is “pure of heart” would be the ideal candidate. Such people welcome the world without reservation, give of themselves without asking or being asked, and face their fears with courage and conviction.

And perhaps that’s why - though I would never do anything else - this job has always been so difficult for me. It’s one reason, anyway.

As I sit here now, with my remaining evidence awaiting analysis, I can’t even hope that anyone else will understand what I’m feeling, not when I don’t fully grasp it myself. Writing all this down has helped, somewhat. But it’s another’s writing that disturbs me still, that none of my own meager ramblings can even hope to match in impact.

Humans possess an extraordinary, horrifying consciousness: we are aware of our inevitable deaths to the point that we prepare for them what may be many years in advance. And as I know all too well, not all of us can accept the end when it comes. I for one always thought I was well aware of my own mortality; after all, my profession involves dealing with others’ every day. I’ve long since made my will, left instructions as to how I want my earthly form to be dealt with, even included directions for dealing with my spiritual one (you can’t be too careful). But when I saw that grave with my name, ready-made, waiting for an occupant… I felt a chill like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.

Whatever possessed me to take my job, indeed.

Maybe the better question is…what _hasn’t?_

Or what, someday, will?

And even now, I wonder…what else did I leave behind that day, with the old man, in the cabin by the caves?


End file.
